Mikha keeps her eyes on the road ahead, but her focus keeps sliding sideways, caught by the shape of Aiah in her peripheral vision.
Aiah's head is turned toward the window, watching the city lights blur past in the fading afternoon light. Her fingers tap a soft rhythm against her thigh, keeping time with the ballad music. The motion is unconscious, unguarded, and Mikha finds herself tracking it longer than she should.
The ivory of Aiah's peplum top catches the last of the sun slanting through the glass. Her ponytail sits neat and high, exposing the clean line of her jaw, the curve of her neck.
Mikha drags her gaze back to the road.
Beautiful. She won't deny it. She's never been stupid enough to pretend otherwise, even when she wanted to hate everything about this arrangement. Aiah is beautiful in the way that makes you look twice, makes you wonder if she knows it, makes you realize she doesn't care either way.
It's been three weeks since the wet market. Three weeks of dinners cooked together, of questions traded across the kitchen counter, of Aiah's laugh slipping out when Mikha says something unexpectedly dry. Three weeks of Mikha telling herself this is all part of the plan.
Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
The plan is still in play. She repeats it like a mantra, like a lifeline. She looks forward to talking to Aiah sometimes, yes. She catches herself wanting to know what Aiah thinks about things, what made her laugh that morning, whether she slept well, yes. But that's just human nature. She's not a robot. Feeling something doesn't mean it's love.
She is still angry.
The anger sits in her chest. The anger she's carried so long she forgets its weight until she stops moving. Her parents thought they could tame her. They thought they could buy her obedience with a marriage contract and a threat. They thought Aiah could fix what they never bothered to understand.
She will hold onto that anger until she breaks Aiah. Until she shows everyone that she cannot be tamed, cannot be managed, cannot be reduced to a signature on a document.
Her eyes drift to Aiah again, lingering a beat longer than she intends. Aiah is speaking now, soft and low, something about the song. Mikha doesn't catch the words. She only hears the warmth in them, the ease that wasn't there a month ago.
Aiah is slowly trusting her. She can feel it in the way Aiah leaves doors open, in the way she asks Mikha's opinion on dinner, in the way she fell asleep on Mikha's lap without thinking twice.
Good. That's what she needs.
The car slows as they approach the restaurant. Mikha pulls into the valet lane and kills the engine.
Aiah turns to her, and there's softness in her expression that makes Mikha's jaw tighten for reasons she doesn't want to acknowledge.
"You good?" Aiah asks.
Mikha answers with a nod, reaching for the door handle. She's good. She's ready to perform. Ready to act. Ready to be the version of herself that her parents and Aiah's parents expect to see.
The restaurant is the kind of place that screams old money. A host leads them through a maze of private corridors to a heavy door at the end. Mikha can hear voices inside, muffled laughter, the clink of glasses.
She squares her shoulders.
The door swings open.
The round table set for six sits at the center. Mikha's parents sit on one side, Aiah's parents on the other. Four heads turn as they enter, four faces arranged in careful welcome.
Aiah moves first, crossing to her parents with a grace Mikha has come to recognize. She bends to kiss her mother's cheek, then her father's, and Carmen's hand comes up to cup her daughter's face, a gesture so tender Mikha has to look away.
She steps forward. The weight of four gazes settles on her.
This is the first time she's seen her parents since the wedding. Since her father stood in the estate's study and told her she would marry Aiah or watch everything she'd built burn. Since her mother stood silent and tearful, complicit in the arrangement.
Mikha's jaw tightens. She forces it loose.
She moves to Aiah's parents first. Eduardo's eyes are kind as she approaches, his face open in a way her own father's never is. She reaches for his hand, brings it to her forehead in a respectful mano.
"Thank you for having us po," she says. The words come out steady, almost sincere.
Eduardo's hand is warm on hers. "We're glad you could come, Mikha. It's good to see you both."
She turns to Carmen, who is watching her with those dark eyes, the same shade as Aiah's. The older woman's gaze is searching, not unkind, and Mikha feels something twist in her chest. She takes Carmen's hand, presses it to her forehead.
"Thank you for the invitation po."
Carmen's fingers brush her cheek as she straightens, a feather-light touch that makes Mikha's breath catch. "You look well, Mikha. Aiah said you've been cooking together."
"She's been teaching me," Mikha says, and it's not entirely a lie. "I can make sinigang now."
Carmen's smile warms. "That's her father's favorite."
Mikha steps back, and now there's nowhere left to go. Her parents sit across the table, watching her with expressions she can't read. Hazel's eyes are wide, almost hopeful. Hubert's face is still, unreadable in a way that makes Mikha's skin prickle.
She doesn't want to do this. Every instinct screams at her to turn away, to refuse, to make them understand that they don't get to have this, that they lost the right to her respect years ago.
But she's performing an act here. And the act requires this.
She crosses to her mother first. Hazel's hand trembles slightly as Mikha reaches for it. The gesture is mechanical, practiced, but she brings it to her forehead anyway. Her mother's skin is cool against hers.
"Ma," she says, and the word tastes like ash in her mouth.
Hazel makes a small sound, something between a gasp and a sob. "Mikha."
Mikha doesn't meet her eyes. She turns to her father, whose gaze has not left her face. Hubert watches her with an intensity that makes her want to step back. But she doesn't. She reaches for his hand, brings it to her forehead.
"Pa."
His hand is still, unmoving in hers. When she straightens, he's staring at her, not unkind, just confused. Like he's seeing something he doesn't recognize.
Good, she thinks. Let him wonder.
She takes her seat beside Aiah, and the dinner begins.
The conversation flows around her. Aiah answers the questions about how they're settling in, her voice smooth and diplomatic, leaving out the part that matter most. That Mikha still drinks every day.
Mikha wonders why Aiah leave that out. Maybe Aiah forgot. But Aiah is not the type to forget things with how abservant she is. Maybe Aiah is protecting her from her parents' scolding.
Mikha shakes the thought away and just drinks her wine and listens.
The talk shifts to business. Hubert and Eduardo trade observations about the market, about partnerships and projections. Mikha's eyes glaze over, but she keeps her face attentive, nodding at the right moments, lifting her glass at the right times.
She's good at this. She's always been good at wearing the mask her parents want to see. The problem was never that she couldn't perform. It was that she refused to.
"And the charity gala," Carmen says, turning to Aiah. "You're hosting it in five months, right?"
Aiah nods, setting down her fork. "The foundation's annual event. We're still finalizing the venue and the guest list."
"That's wonderful, anak." Carmen's eyes shine with pride. "Your father and I will be there, of course."
"And the Lims," Hazel adds, her voice soft. "We wouldn't miss it."
Mikha watches her mother. Hazel is looking at Aiah the way she never looked at Mikha — with warmth, with approval, with hope. Something sharp twists in Mikha's chest.
"It's a big undertaking," Aiah says, and Mikha feels a hand brush her knee under the table. She startles, nearly sloshing her wine, and looks up to find Aiah's eyes on her, steady and calm. "But I have help."
The hand stays on her knee for a moment longer, then withdraws. Mikha stares at her plate, her pulse loud in her ears.
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of polite conversation and careful smiles. Mikha eats without tasting, drinks without feeling the wine, answers questions without hearing them. She's aware of Aiah beside her, a warm presence that anchors her to the moment, and she hates how much she doesn't hate it.
Finally, the meal winds down. Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone rises. Goodbyes are exchanged at the door of the private room, a parade of embraces and handshakes and promises to see each other soon.
Carmen pulls Mikha into a hug, and Mikha freezes for a moment before her arms come up to return it. And she has to close her eyes against the sudden ache in her throat.
"Thank you," Carmen murmurs against her ear. "For taking care of her."
Mikha doesn't know how to answer that. She nods, and Carmen releases her.
Eduardo steps forward, and instead of a handshake, he places a hand on Mikha's shoulder. His grip is firm, fatherly, and it makes her chest crack.
"It's good to know you're taking care of her," he says, his voice low. "She looks less stressed than she has in months. Even with her workload."
Mikha swallows. "I—" She stops. Clears her throat. "She takes care of me too."
Eduardo's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's what marriage is, anak. Taking care of each other."
Anak. The word lands heavily in her chest. Her own father has never called her that. Not once.
She nods, not trusting her voice, and steps back toward Aiah.
They walk out of the restaurant together. The valet brings the car around, and Mikha slides into the driver's seat, her hands steady on the wheel even though everything inside her feels unstable.
The engine hums to life. She pulls out of the lot.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Mikha keeps her eyes on the road, but she can feel Aiah's gaze on her.
"How are you feeling?" Aiah asks, her voice gentle. "Seeing your parents, I mean."
The question hangs in the air. Mikha's first instinct is to lie, to say she's fine, to deflect with a joke or a dismissal. The truth sits on her tongue — I hate them. I hate the way they look at you like you're the daughter they should have had. I hate that I let them do this to me. I hate that I'm still angry even though I don't know how to be anything else.
She stops herself. Swallows it down.
"It's okay," she says, and the words come out flat, unconvincing even to her own ears.
Aiah doesn't push. She just watches Mikha for a moment, then turns back to the window. But she doesn't change the subject. She waits, patient, the silence an open door Mikha could walk through if she wanted to.
Mikha doesn't walk through it. Instead, she shifts the topic, steering them toward safer ground.
"Your charity gala," she says. "What's it for this year?"
Aiah's face lights up in a way that makes Mikha's chest tighten. "It's for the scholarship program, actually. We're expanding it to cover more students, and the gala is the main fundraiser."
"The one you told me about," Mikha says. "The legacy."
Aiah nods, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's important to me. My father built it from nothing, and I want to make sure it keeps growing."
She starts talking then, about the program, about the students she's met, about the difference it makes. Her voice is animated, her hands moving as she describes plans for expansion, for mentorship, for scholarships that don't just cover tuition but books and board and everything in between.
Mikha listens. She lets the words wash over her, warm and alive.
The car turns onto their street. The house appears ahead.
Aiah is still talking, still rambling about gala logistics and guest lists and silent auction items, and Mikha realizes with a start that she hasn't been pretending to listen. She's been actually listening. She's been actually interested.
She pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. The silence that follows is sudden, complete, and Aiah laughs softly, a little embarrassed.
"Sorry," she says. "I get carried away."
"Don't apologize," Mikha says, and she means it. "I asked."
Aiah stares at her, something unreadable passing through her eyes. Then she smiles, small and soft, and reaches for the door.
"Come on," she says. "Let's go inside."
Mikha follows her up the walk, through the door. Aiah opens it using a key. The house wraps around them, quiet and familiar, and Mikha stands in the entryway for a moment, watching Aiah move through the living room, turning on lamps, checking the house.
The anger is still there. It's always there. But it feels different tonight — duller, somehow, like a wound that's starting to heal even though she doesn't want it to.